


at least they're mine

by Chokingonholywater



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, Gen, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Self-Harm, its not horribly graphic but its yeah its enough, the Squip still shows up sometimes after the play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 17:51:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12114033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chokingonholywater/pseuds/Chokingonholywater
Summary: It's been months since everything went down backstage at the play, but Jeremy Heere is still haunted by ghosts of the past.





	at least they're mine

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has a fairly explicit depiction of self harm, please be safe!

"Shut up, shut up!"

Jeremy crushed his pillow against his head, breathing heavily. He was curled up into a ball on his bed, eyes squeezed tightly shut, but it didn't matter. Even with his eyes closed, he could still see the figure hovering in the corner.

"Now, now, Jeremy," his Squip said, chuckling as it leaned up against the wall. "There's no need for all the dramatics."

"Fuck off!" Jeremy yelled, his voice muffled by the pillow.

Suddenly, a sharp jolt of pain raced down Jeremy's spine, causing his eyes to fly open. His Squip had materialized just inches from where Jeremy lay, standing over him. It was sneering.

"You know you need me, Jeremy! Just look at yourself," it said, gesturing towards Jeremy's shaking form. "A loser. A freak. You're nothing but an insignificant speck without me."

With a screech, Jeremy shot up in bed. "I said, shut up!" He swiped his arm violently in front of him, swinging directly through his Squip's abdomen. The figure crackled slightly, its coding visible for a moment before it reformed itself into the image of Keanu Reeves. Lightning fast, the Squip crouched down to eye level with Jeremy. A pixelated hand shot out and gripped Jeremy's chin, immobilizing him.

Jeremy was looking directly at the face of Keanu Reeves, but the eyes in front of him were sparkling with rage. "And I said that you're nothing, Jeremy. A loser. A coward. A failure." Each word was punctuated with a searing jolt throughout Jeremy's body. He could feel his skin burning even after the initial pain had subsided, a lingering bite to the cruel words the figure in front of him spat so vehemently.

The Squip's face contorted in disgust as it released Jeremy's chin away and flung his head to the side. "You're pathetic, Jeremy," it sneered, sending another violent shock through Jeremy's body. Jeremy fought the urge to scream, knowing it would only make things worse, but he couldn't help the tears that welled up in his eyes.

His Squip gave a mirthless laugh as it settled on Jeremy's desk. "Tears, really, Jeremy? Truly pitiful," it muttered. It gave a wolfish grin and stared directly at Jeremy, who was fighting to keep his breathing steady after the intense shocks he'd just received. "But you know how to fix it, don't you? Well," it added, giving another cold laugh, "you know who can fix it. Just listen to me, Jeremy," the Squip cooed, moving towards Jeremy's spot on the bed. "You'll be popular, powerful, incredible! I know you still want it, deep down," it added slyly.

Jeremy watched the Squip's smile grow as it spoke. He couldn't help but feel it - that familiar longing for the things the Squip promised, the knowledge of his own inadequacy bubbling below the surface. For a minute, he half wanted to give in and let the Squip take control, and he could see that the Squip knew it. Its grin widened the longer Jeremy's silence stretched on. Jeremy could see the glint in the Squip's eyes at the prospect of being in control.

With great effort, Jeremy stood up and turned his back on the Squip. All he needed was some Mountain Dew Red, and this would all be—

"God!" Jeremy yelled, his body twitching with the strength of the shock he'd just received. The shocks were always the worst when he tried to get to the supply of Mountain Dew Red in the mini fridge.

He reached out for the door of the fridge and was shocked again, he knuckles going white with the force of his grip.

"You motherfucker," he muttered, not turning to look at the figure behind him. He knew that the Squip would be doing what it always did when Jeremy went for the Mountain Dew Red: glaring deeply at Jeremy with its arms crossed, crackling from the effort of the electric impulses, and trying to make itself as intimidating as possible.

Jeremy managed to get a half empty bottle of Mountain Dew Red out of the fridge and unscrew the cap with only two more shocks (the Squip always tried to make him drop the bottle). Still with his back to the Squip, Jeremy threw up his middle finger behind him and chugged half of what was left in the bottle. He grimaced - stuff from the 90's never really tasted good, and this bottle had been open for a week or so already - but when he turned around, he was greeted with an empty corner.

"Thank god," Jeremy whispered to himself, sinking to the floor.

Episodes like that shook him, mentally and physically. The Squip always knew exactly what to focus on to make Jeremy as worked up as possible, and he could still feel his skin burning residually from the shocks. Even though he knew what he would see, he held out a hand in front of him. As always after a particularly bad interaction with his Squip, it was shaking.

Jeremy ran that same hand through his hair and tried to breathe evenly - what was the exercise Christine had taught him to deal with panicked breathing?

Slowly, he began to catch his breath. His hands were still shaky, but it was tolerable. He was used to it. As he went to stand up, he really felt the pain from the Squip's shocks. "God, that fucking hurts," he muttered quietly to himself. With a deep breath, he pushed himself to his feet. He winced at the burning pain in his arms as he steadied himself on the corner of his dresser. He stared down at his hands as his vision swam, trying desperately to refocus himself the way he always had to after shocks like those.

Just as he was beginning to return to normal, he noticed that his cardigan sleeves had pulled up, and it was like the floor dropped out from under him.

There was a reason he always covered up his arms, and his breath hitched as he stared, transfixed, at the exposed skin of his forearms and wrists.

Horrible, ugly lines snaked out from underneath the cuff of Jeremy's cardigan. They were tinged a blue-green color, the same hue that the Squip's eyes glowed. The jagged marks were littered all across Jeremy's body, but they were worst in the places where the Squip had shocked him most: his back for slouching, his forearms for putting his hands in his pockets, his wrists for when the Squip had tried to break his morning internet habit.

Jeremy wasn't sure exactly when the scars had shown up. He hadn't noticed them until he woke up in the hospital after the play, but if the Squip could block out entire people, Jeremy didn't doubt it could make him blind to the scars appearing on his skin.

Jeremy's breathing was labored again, and he sunk to the floor for the second time that night. He couldn't take his eyes off of the horrible marks, and his blood was rushing in his ears as his vision swam. He could feel the lingering pain from the shocks rushing over him in time to his pounding heart, flowing through the circuit-like marks on his arms and back.

Suddenly Jeremy couldn't hear anything, couldn't breathe, couldn't move. All he could do was stare in panic at the scars, remembering what it was like when he'd gotten them. The memories flashed before his eyes as he sat immobilized: Jeremy at the mall, screaming in agony on the ground of the food court. Jeremy getting that first painful jolt the next morning as he went to get onto his computer. Jeremy getting shocked in the halls at school because he wasn't walking properly. Jeremy being shocked for refusing the Squip's suggestions about his costume for the Halloween party. Jeremy getting shocked for thinking about Michael, for reaching for the wrong shirt, for heading towards the wrong lunch table, for saying the wrong thing to Christine, for anything and everything that the Squip didn't like, over and over and _over_ again.

It was too much. All Jeremy wanted was for the scars to be gone, he didn't care how. Nothing else mattered except those awful marks screaming at him, the burning pain coursing through them under his skin.

Jeremy let out a shaky whimper, raking his fingers through his hair. He couldn't catch his breath, and he could feel tears prickling in his eyes. Even when he squeezed them shut, the scars were imprinted onto his eyelids, glowing like neon signs. He curled tighter into himself, but nothing helped the awful sense of dread clinging to his insides.

Every breath was a loud as anything Jeremy had ever heard, every heartbeat a pounding pulse. The phrase "panic attack" traipsed hazily through his mind before it disappeared under a new wave of memories.

Jermey wrenched his eyes open to dispel the images in his head and tried to suck air into his lungs, but it was like he was drowning. He gasped for air, desperate to breathe, and eventually managed a few shallow breaths.

His eyes flicked downwards towards his arms, and what meager supplies of air he'd managed to suck in disappeared. He could see the scars, somehow more uglier than he remembered, snaking around his bare arms,

He couldn't stand it.

Breathing in short, panicked bursts, Jeremy pushed himself off the floor. He stumbled towards his desk, frantically pushing papers and empty cans out of the way.

"It's here somewhere," Jeremy mumbled, his voice shaking. He yanked on the desk drawer, pulling out its contents. Old folders and half used pencils fell to the ground around him as he desperately searched through the drawer. He caught another glimpse of the scars and began to hyperventilate again, emptying the drawer of its contents even more frantically than before.

"It should be fucking _here_ ," he panted, yanking the drawer out of the desk."I know I put it here!"

The blue-green lines mocked Jeremy as he felt around the very back of the drawer. "Please, god, please," he groaned, his hand scrambling, panicked, against the wood. "I can't - these fucking scars, they need to be gone, I can't do this, I —"

Suddenly, he felt his fingers graze the edge of a plastic bag. He grabbed it and wrenched his hand back towards him, dragging the bag out with it.

Jeremy's gut dropped as he saw the glint of the silver inside the bag, but he didn't hesitate as he tore through the plastic.

He turned the bag upside down, throwing it to the ground as the small piece of metal fell into his palm. Jeremy shuddered at the chill that went down his spine.

He'd used the blade only once, sophomore year. It had been the middle of the year, and he'd fallen in the cafeteria earlier that day. Everyone had laughed, and as if that weren't mortifying enough, he'd dumped his lunch all down his front. He remembered sitting dumbfounded on the floor of the cafeteria as everyone pointed and laughed, then sprinting out of the room to the bathroom. He'd cried in the disgusting school bathroom, scrubbing desperately at his clothes to no avail. He'd had to go through the rest of day with his clothes splattered in what had been his lunch.

Later that day, as Jeremy was at his locker getting ready to leave, Rich had cornered him in the hall and tormented Jeremy until he was choking back tears. He'd always known he wasn't cool, but it was suddenly just too _much_.  He'd turned his back on Rich and ran away, Rich's jeers chasing him down the hall. When Jeremy got home, he'd locked himself in his room. He'd had sat on his floor, still wearing his food-covered clothes, and sobbed for what felt like hours. At the end, when his tears had finally dried up and his sobs had dwindled to hiccups, he'd felt empty. He hadn't felt anything at all, except for a new sense of self loathing, screaming to be let out.

And so Jeremy had let it out.

After it was done, Jeremy'd called Michael, sobbing again. Michael had rushed over, letting out a soft gasp as he saw what his friend had done. The cuts weren't too bad - just scratches, really, but Michael's eyes had welled up with tears anyways. He'd gently pried the blade from Jeremy's shaking hands, gotten him patched up, and sat with an arm around Jeremy's shoulders until they both fell asleep.

The next morning, Jeremy had quietly put the blade into a bag and shoved it to the very back of his desk, where it had stayed for more than a year.

Jeremy couldn't help but think about that night as he turned the metal in his hands. It glinted dangerously, casting dancing spots of light onto his arms and chest as he moved it.

Jeremy began to hesitate, but one more glance at his arms was all it took. With a shaky breath, he tightened his grip on the blade, set it to his skin, and pulled.

At first, he didn't see anything. He panicked for a moment - _what if it's too dull? What if I can't even do_ this _right_? - and then, slowly, a faint red line appeared. It began to grow, scarlet droplets blossoming up to cover the blue of the scar underneath.

It was satisfying, watching the marks from his electrical shocks disappear - so he chose another one and pulled again, the blue-green marks being covered by beads of crimson.

Jeremy was shaking as he moved from one circuit-like line to the next, but his breathing had calmed down. He felt the same sense of emptiness he'd felt that first time. He felt like he was watching a recording of his life: he didn't feel real, didn't feel like that was his blood bubbling to the surface, didn't feel the pain he knew he should.

It did feel good to get rid of the Squip's scars, so Jeremy kept going. He traced each crackling scar meticulously, watching it spill over with red before moving on to the next. There was something therapeutic about the pain, and about watching those old marks disappear.

By the time he couldn't see any more of the original tinted scars on his arms, Jeremy was shaking horribly. He suddenly realized that he'd been crying, his face wet with tears. He went to rub his eyes but paused as he lifted a hand; there was blood caked under his fingernails and dried onto his skin.

He let out a hoarse laugh and dropped the blade on the ground next to him, pushing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Now that the adrenaline was fading, he could feel the pain of each oozing mark. Jeremy started to cry again, the full realization of what he'd done hitting him like a freight train. All he could see through his tears was red, red, red, dripping down his arms and falling in perfect little drops onto the floor.

Jeremy shook his head, trying to reign himself back in. He had to clean up, wash off his arms, bandage them somehow. He knew they would scar no matter what he did, and he was surprised to realize it didn't bother him. In fact, he'd kind of _wanted_  them to, even when he made the first cut. There was something satisfying to Jeremy about the idea of reclaiming those marks of the Squip's power for himself.

After all, he would've had to live with the scars from his Squip his whole life regardless of what he did, a zigzagging circuitboard of blue across his body. Now, at least, the scars wouldn't have come from his Squip; they'd have come from Jeremy.

Jeremy's hand.

Jeremy's choice.

Jeremy in control.

He blinked, pulling himself away from his thoughts and back to reality.

After a glance at his bloody arms, Jeremy stood up, grimacing resolutely. "I would've had to see those scars every day anyways," he muttered, "but at least now they're mine.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah. so. that was emotionally draining to write  
> i'd be open to writing a second chapter with a happier ending if you guys wanted to see that, but for now im gonna leave it here.
> 
> let me know what you thought, thanks for reading! find me @choking-onholywater on tumblr :')


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